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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160511">so hot you're hurting my feelings</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13'>safeandsound13</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, F/M, Horny!Clarke, Long-Distance Relationship, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Voice Kink, if i was a braver woman i wouldve done it, it was about time to let it go, like.. its a problem..., one ive been obsessively listening to for eleven months now, safeandsound13 fans simply not ready for it yet, theres no use of the word daddy but i think it borders on there, theyre just in love and wanna bone but theyre 6000 miles apart, ultimately this fic is based completely off a song, wanted to make a kiss me thru the phone allegory but im 24 years old</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:13:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,245</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160511</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke and Bellamy are doing long distance. Most of the time, Clarke is okay with that because she's fucking proud of her boyfriend for chasing his dreams and she has her own academic succes to worry about. Tonight, though — after one too many drinks, a Spotify shuffle of faith and some annoying as fuck tourist pictures — she's lonely. And horny.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>247</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Bellarke smut</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>so hot you're hurting my feelings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i just had a very specific vision attained to this song for so long i thought maybe actually writing it would help me get rid of the intrusive thoughts every time i listen to this song. especially after hearing squirrel flower's cover of the original by caroline polacheck. turns out theres no cure for bellarke. send help</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Clarke isn’t a clingy person by any definition. She likes her freedom, enjoys her independence. And yes, it took her and Bellamy around two and half years of pining and being general idiots before they got their act together and got together, only for him to take off halfway across the world not even six months later. Everything going right for once, that’s the dream. Being Clarke Griffin, that’s reality.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s more than proud of him, though. He’s out there doing what he’s always wanted but has been held back from doing by his family, his lack of resources, his personal setbacks. Bellamy’s worked so hard, for so long, and she can tell he’s happy just from the sound of his voice whenever he tells her about his day. He’s absolutely killing it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just a fucking shame it has to be all the way in Rome. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tonight, there’s a party though. Not in Rome, but at one of the sorority mansions and Clarke is honest to God having a good time. Not just because her friends practically held a gun to her head, dragging her over here on a random Friday night in January while force-feeding her jello-shots on the way there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“College is not just about locking yourself up in your dorm to study, Clarke,” Monty had chastised her like half an hour ago, because not having been to a single party in the last two weeks was obviously a Capital Sin if you were a college student. “Besides, you’re pretty academically successful. You’re allowed to have some fun.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I promised Bell I’d facetime him later,” Clarke had started easily, dismissive. It wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>untrue</span>
  </em>
  <span>, besides she’d already changed into her pjs and picked out a sappy Netflix film to Rabbit with him later so she could make fun of him for actually enjoying it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ha,” Monty had victoriously pointed a finger at her, one she couldn’t tear her eyes away from as his next words settled dreadfully into her bones. “I knew you were going to say that so I already texted him. He didn’t mind rescheduling.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke had managed to stifle a pout just in time — </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> was not the crowd for it and it’s on herself for not intercepting Monty’s plan sooner so she could’ve directed it at the </span>
  <em>
    <span>right </span>
  </em>
  <span>person — and settled on putting down her pencil, crossing her arms over her chest with a sigh as she went over their idea. Considering it — a Friday night party — seriously this time, the least she owed them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re coming, and that’s final,” Raven had cut in then, not even looking up from her phone as she delivered the verdict. Her friend knew her too well to not recognize the look on her face for what it was: conniving. Clarke was about to attempt to talk them out of it again. Pretend she had something better to do, a deadline to make or a test to revise for. Maybe even a headache, if she was really desperate. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Honestly, Clarke was fine, holed up in her room by herself. Working on her paintings, typing out her essays, dancing around in her underwear because her roommate was out getting slammed on a Monday again. She liked the concept of parties, even enjoyed some of them from time to time. But she never liked the parties they made her go to, always too busy, too loud, too much. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked</span>
  </em>
  <span> being on her own, decompressing, focusing on winding herself down, not up.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her friends confused Clarke’s enjoyment of being alone for loneliness. Especially considering she used to come out </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>the time. Like, she was the notorious queen of Quarters and collecting numbers in less than ten sentences, she came out that often. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was when she still had a purpose for nights out, an ulterior motive if you will — to make the hangover, and morning after embarrassment over drunk Clarke’s actions, and pained feet — worth it. First it was trying to subtly hit on Bellamy, trying to make him jealous by hitting on anything that walked or break his resolve with as much cleavage that was allowed before being deemed public indecency. And if he wasn’t interested, some else might be. After they got together, he always promised her sexual favors in return for a forty-five minute cameo at one of his frat parties. Monty and Raven’s tactics are hardly as efficient. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, Clarke relented. Figured she might as well. Put on a tight top, smeared on some ruby colored lipstick and let her hair down out of it’s permanent messy bun. For the first time in weeks, she made an actual effort.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The party is</span>
  <em>
    <span> actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> fun, in an abstract sense. There was always the societal pressure she felt as an introvert to like these sorts of things looming in the back of her mind, but even putting that all aside, it had all the right ingredients. Good music, non-crappy beer, her favorite people. Yes, it was crowded, and unbearably hot, and guys kept trying to hit on her, but that was just life as a woman. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke plays beer pong with Raven against Monty and Jasper and they actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>win</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Humours Roan when she’s going for a refill and he challenges her to do a keg stand. She’s a good friend and listens to Gaia going on about contemporary paganism for fifteen minutes straight without having to suppress even so much as one yawn. Even puts her inner heroics on display by saving Harper from some freshman boy’s pathetic drunk advances (she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> nice) by leading her over to the dancefloor, their bodies grinding against each other to the beat of a Dua Lipa song. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She enjoys the gentle press of Harper’s body against hers, her narrow fingers fitting between hers, the heat radiating off her. It’s not quite</span>
  <em>
    <span> everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> she wants — a bit too soft and small — but it’s a nice placekeeper. At this point, Clarke is well aware she’s going to have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>massive</span>
  </em>
  <span> hangover tomorrow, but is way, </span>
  <em>
    <span>way</span>
  </em>
  <span> past actually caring. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Harper laughs and says something in her ear, sweaty hair stuck to her temple, but Clarke’s too dazed by the buzz to process what she’s saying. Her friend goes to get them some drinks and Clarke looks around awkwardly, almost thankful when the song changes to something slower. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She freezes when she realizes what song it is. </span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p><span>The song that played when they first kissed on her shitty dorm bed like something out of a fucking movie. </span><em><span>Ain’t it a gentle sound, the rolling in the graves?</span></em><span> One of his hands on her cheek and the other on the little sliver of exposed skin on her hip. Socked feet brushing against hers. </span><em><span>Ain’t it like thunder under earth, the sound it makes?</span></em><span> Their books knocked to the ground as he lifted her onto his lap with one arm, revising of any kind long forgotten.</span> <span>Her fingers weaving into his messy curls, pulling just enough to earn her a soft groan. </span><em><span>Ain’t it exciting you, the rumble where you live? </span></em><span>His soft mouth anything but pliant under hers, both of them likening this to one of their many arguments, pouring in their everything, neither of them giving the win away. </span><em><span>Ain’t you my baby? </span></em><span>Her panting breath warm against his lips once they pulled away, bristling the lock of golden hair stuck to her cheek. Staring into his dark, brown eyes, blown pupils matching hers. They both knew it. After all the quiet yearning, the longing looks, the unspoken words. This was the moment that changed everything.</span><em><span> Ain’t you my baby?</span></em></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke swallows hard. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It just hit her all at once. It’s not like she never enjoyed parties, because obviously at one point she very much did. Right now it’s more clear than ever, why it is she never goes to any of them anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She misses him at her side here more than anywhere else. Deep laughter causing his shoulder to brush against hers while they cheered on a game of beer pong, their fingers intertwined as he lead her through the crowd to find their friends, the taste of beer on his lips as he pressed her up against the wall off somewherein a dark, quiet corner. Clarke’s sad, and she can’t even be angry at him for it. He’s out there, doing what he loves and being the absolute best at it. She’s so incredibly proud of him, and she loves him, and she’s a little drunk and — she </span>
  <em>
    <span>misses</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. So much, it aches something fierce right in the middle of her chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As if he’s able to sense it from halfway across the world, speak of the devil, her pocket buzzes. Clarke pulls her phone from the back of her jeans, smiling stupidly to herself as she opens the notification. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a picture of him, too hard to make out any details in the dark, but he’s on the couch, only light coming from what she guesses is the television. He’s wearing his stupid glasses and the picture is taken from an angle that shouldn’t be this attractive. Bellamy attached a message saying “</span>
  <em>
    <span>who would’ve thought out of the two of us I’m the one spending my friday night inside by myself like a loser</span>
  </em>
  <span>”. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke bursts out into a watery laughs, feeling stupid as the back of her eyes prick with tears. She quickly wipes them away with the back of her hand, hoping she doesn’t look too insane but also too tipsy to give a fuck. Harper comes back, handing her a red solo cup and Clarke hooks her arm around her neck, snapping a quick pic to send back to her boyfriend. Her mascara’s a little smudged and her wavy hair’s a mess, but she’s still smiling as she types, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Are you calling me a loser?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His reply is almost instant, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You settled for me, didn’t you? ;)</span>
  </em>
  <span>” and it’s quickly followed up by, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, BTW we visited Florence today</span>
  </em>
  <span>” and “</span>
  <em>
    <span>So cool!!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” followed by another string of pictures before telling her goodnight. Clarke takes a swig of her drink, resting the cup against her lips absentmindedly before she starts thumbing through the images. Chest aching like hell as she stops on one of him posing in front of a sculpture. He looks so stupid, with his big backpack that has a strap around his waist and his curls sticking up each which way and the travel guide glued to his hand. Sometimes it’s hard to believe this is the same guy who used to be their college’s biggest manwhore and likes wrapping his hand around her throat during sex. It’s hard to believe either of</span>
  <em>
    <span> them</span>
  </em>
  <span> are the same guy who cried when he told her he loved her for the first time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke realizes it’s embarrassing how long she’s standing there on the middle of the makeshift dancefloor, staring at a fucking picture on her phone. He just looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> good. His skin has darkened from the sun, making his freckles stand out more, and he’s even gained some more muscle from his many hikes that have caused her camera roll to look like an editorial spread straight from the Walmart version of Natural Geographic. (There’s only so many “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Clarke, look at this identical tree from the last six I sent you</span>
  </em>
  <span>” shots one can be excited about.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay, maybe she was a little lonely. Maybe, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she missed him even more than she realized. His warm skin, his rough touch, his deep voice. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Worst of all, now she’s fucking horny too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harper is already back to dancing to the beat of some haunted EDM song, letting some guy who looks harmless enough whisper something in her ear, so all Clarke has to do is mumble something about a bathroom before she can sneak off unnoticed. Dancing with her friend has left her skin heated, and it’s prickling with a need she knows she won’t be able to satisfy by herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fifty-five days since she last saw Bellamy. Not that she’s counting — because that’s pathetic — but NYE was fifty-four days ago, which means anyone with basic deductive math skills could figure out it was fifty-</span>
  <em>
    <span>four</span>
  </em>
  <span> days since he stepped back on a plane, ringing in the new year on a different continent. Without her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s around the two week mark when the dreams start coming in. The x-rated kind of dreams that have her waking up panting and full of desperate want. It’s around four weeks when her hands stop being enough to satisfy her completely and the dreams no longer only haunt her at night. She zones out in the middle of class, finger wrapped around her opposite shoulder as her thumb brushes against her pulsepoint, imagining he’s pressing his mouth there. She’ll see someone with broad shoulders in the check-out aisle at Target, for a split second will think of him, and then she’ll need to avert her eyes and press her thighs together as inconspicuously as possible. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke’s gone without sex for longer period of time before. She’s not an addicted heathen who’s unaware of other pleasures in life, like a nice hot bath after a long day of classes, or a finished painting on a lazy Sunday morning. It’s just different when you know you could be having it whenever you want, but something as simple as distance — six-thousand lousy miles — is keeping you from it. It shouldn’t have to be so hard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her mind? In complete and utter understanding that; this is how life works, they’re both adults and it’s important for Bellamy to be where he is right now even if that’s away from her, and someday soon they’ll be together again and they can do more than make-up for all the time lost. Everything can be rationalized. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In theory.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her body is an entirely different story. Once it’s been well over six weeks — it’s not far from desperation. Add some alcohol in the mix, and Clarke’s locking herself into an upstairs bedroom and dialing his number. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clarke, are you still at the party?” He asks after the fourth ring, amused, a little rough with sleep. She has half a brain to remember it’s the middle of the night in Italy, but he’s awake now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” she hums in agreement, making sure the door is locked before she falls down on the bed with a small bounce. Clarke twirls her hair around her fingers, enjoying the distraction that comes with a mindless gesture like that as she stares up at the ceiling. “Wanted to talk to you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Here we are,” Bellamy teases, matter-of-factly. “Talking.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She imagines what he looks like right now. Hair mussed, maybe a crinkle in his face from his pillow. Alone in bed, like her. So far away. So fucking lonely. Out of sheer frustration, Clarke buries her face into the pillow for a second, sighing loudly. “I lied.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“About what, baby?” Bellamy asks, gently, and he knows her so well, her core tingling at the nickname. One he only uses when he knows she wants to feel small. He makes her feel so big in so many ways, more than she can count. Always building her up and encouraging her to follow her dreams and to have her own life, but sometimes she just wants to curl up in his arms and stop thinking. Wants to feel safe, and protected, and completely consumed and out of control. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she presses, and although her blood-alcohol level has her thinking she’s being kind of coy, deep down she realizes she isn’t actually being that subtle. And she doesn’t particularly care. She knows what she wants. And so does he.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then what is it that you want to do?” Bellamy chuckles, and she knows he’s just playing along. If she could see him, she would send him a completely underwhelmed look, but she can’t, because he’s not here with her. “Play GamePigeon?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop teasing me,” Clarke grumbles, pouting. She’s not in the mood for too much foreplay, so she cuts straight to the point. “I want you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pointing out the obvious, he replies, “But I’m not with you right now, baby.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she whines, eyebrows furrowing together as if he can see her. Clarke knows she’s coming across like a petulant child, but she also knows airing her grievances with him might get him to feel guilty enough to do something about it. “I’m mad at you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bellamy lets out a tired little sigh. “What did I do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke crosses one arm over her chest, folding her hand into the crook of the elbow holding her phone to her ear. “You told Monty we could reschedule our date. I already picked out a movie and everything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a small hiss on his side of the line, and she knows she’s getting close to having him give in. “What movie did you pick?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter.” She forgot. It’s not like she actually cares. Or that they would’ve been watching it anyway. They usually have way too much to talk about to pay attention to any background noise. Clarke quickly changes the subject, keeping her tone close to something resembling upset, “And I bought something I thought you’d like.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hums. “And what’s that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke’s shirt has ridden up from crossing her arm across earlier, and she plays with the hem, pushed up just below her bra. “This really pretty lacy bralette, with matching panties.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can hear him shift. “What color?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It coaxes a surprised laugh from her, taking her out of the moment for just a second. “Does it matter?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you want me to picture exactly how sorry I should be, then yes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Powder blue.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He makes a low sound in the back of his throat, sounding genuinely upset. “That’s my favorite color on you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke smirks, smug. “I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Bellamy says, earnest, and she can picture the exact face he’s making because she has seen it so many times. From being too late for their study dates because he got distracted in one of the library’s aisles to one of their many arguments about his sister dictating his every move to accidentally stepping on Miller’s dog’s paw — he loves wallowing in his own self-hatred every chance he gets. His eyes screwed shut, jaw tight with regret and apologeticness. “I know I would’ve loved it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He would’ve. She looked banging in the dressing room, and even Josie texted her so after asking for her approval via snapchat. She would’ve lit some candles, and set her laptop up on her desk for a full view and thrown on one of his old t-shirts just to tease him a little. Instead he made her go to some stupid fun party to see her friends and get drunk. And now she’s alone in some nice-smelling sorority girl’s room and she’s horny. And it’s been fifty-four days, and she just wants him to show up at her door so she can cling onto him like one of those koala bears on the Discovery Channel that’s always playing at his house because he’s a fucking nerd. And she loves him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just miss you,” Clarke breathes, shakily, hearing the tears in her own voice. She hadn’t meant to get emotional, but one too many fruity shots and built-up frustrated, horny hormones and all that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t cry, Clarke,” he immediately coos, and there’s enough commotion on the other side of the line for her to know he’s sitting up. Maybe sitting on the edge of his bed now, completely awake, or pacing the room. Desperation is laced through his voice, and she imagines he’s pulling on his hair, like he always does when he feels helpless, “You know I hate it when you cry.” Quickly, he adds, as if it’s not exactly what she’s wanted all along, “Let me make it up to you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Finding she really has worked herself close to tears, she sniffs. It’s quickly replaced with a familiar throbbing between her legs though. “I need you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her phone suddenly vibrating in her palms startles her enough to almost drop it on top of her face. She scrambles to get her grip back on it, accepting his Facetime call with a little twinge of anticipation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Baby,” he says, as the connection takes a second to adjust. The grainy, pixelated screen morphing into something that resembles her boyfriend sitting on his bed, the iPad she gifted him for Christmas perched on top of his crossed ankles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi.” Clarke smiles to herself, a giddy feeling washing over her, knowing she’s gotten her way. She flips the camera, showing off exactly how her hand creeps down her body slowly, leisurely, over the smooth, soft skin of her stomach before playing with the button on her pants. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clarke,” he grits, obviously struggling, this position giving her a perfect view of the way his jaw looks like it’s about to snap. “Tell me how wet you are.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pops open the button easily, dipping under the waistband of her panties. A small moan escapes her lips as she finds herself embarrassingly wet, like silk between the pads of her fingers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke idly swirls them around her wet folds, enjoying how it relieves some of the tension that’s been building up slowly since she first thought of their first kiss. Enjoys knowing he’s watching her, still waiting for an answer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He practically growls, voice raw and desperate. So fucking impatient, like she’d hoped. “Baby—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Drenched, Bell,” she finally alleviates his anguish, pulling her hand back before she gets too distracted playing with herself. There’s just enough light in the room for her fingers to glisten as she holds them up in front of the camera, showing them off. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” he curses, and she can tell one of his hands disappears down the centre of the screen, probably to palm his dick. Hard, and wanting, all because of her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her fingers walk down her stomach, stopping to toy with the bow on the front of her boyshorts, leaving a wet trail on her pale skin. “What should I do, Bell?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>“Use one finger to rub slow circles around your clit,” he commands, slipping into a darker tone all too easily. His breathing is noisily husky to her ear now, sending an anticipatory shiver down her back. “</span><em><span>Show</span></em> <em><span>me</span></em><span>.”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke’s hand kickstarts into motion, doing as he’s told as her teeth fret along the edge of her bottom lip. Her own voice sounds thick at the first touch to the bundle of nerves as she hums with a satisfaction that should be illegal. Bellamy seems to like it, by the way his breathing speeds up, drinking in her every move as if she’s the salve to his own aching arousal. Every little sound she makes, every little touch and command she follows another addition to his own throbbing need. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She practically whines, “It’s not the same.” Pretending to give up, she pulls back her hand and flips the camera back onto her face. She’s well aware she sounds like a brat. Even more aware of how much it turns him on. “My fingers don’t feel as good as you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know it’s not,” he groans, laced with disappointment, as he clenches his jaw, “Fuck, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> it’s not, but I’m thinking of you, that helps. Try and think of me, okay?” As if she could think about anything or anyone else right now. Especially not with his baritone oozing in from the other side of the screen, her favorite aphrodisiac. “Slide your finger down between your folds. Just one.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke sighs, wistfully, as if giving in is the hardest thing she’s ever had to do. Using her middle finger, she does as she’s told. Instead of flipping the camera, she just briefly turns her phone to show him she’s following his demands, before turning it back into her face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mhmm, good girl,” Bellamy says, full of admiration, and she glows with the praise, batting her eyelashes. “Can you take off your shirt for me, baby? I need to see all of you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke nods, leaning the phone horizontally against the lava lamp on the nightstand as she starts to attempt to pull her tight top over her head. It’s a little harder than she’d envisioned, a full twenty seconds before she even gets it up over her neck without falling over. She pushes herself up on her knees while her arms are up in the air and bent at a weird angle so she can try to tug her hair free from the collar. “I’m stuck,” she complains, muffled from behind the fabric of her top.</span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, a deep rumble in his chest. “It’s a nice view though.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can imagine, with the way she’s jiggling around. Clarke finally manages to pull the whole thing over her head, sticking out her tongue at him as she flings it off somewhere to the side. She leans forward on her hands, giving him a good view of her breasts, pressed together in a way that’s almost obscene. “It is, huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can see the muscles in the forearm of his off-screen hand move, his voice rough, “Take off the bra too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You first.” Clarke raises her eyebrows, challenging even though she knows he won’t object. “Everything,” she demands, impatient. “I want it all off.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bellamy is quick to obey, shifting so his back against the headboard of his bed before putting the iPad down a little off the side by his legs. He takes his shirt by the back of his neck and smoothly pulls it over his head. Next, he lifts his hips briefly to push his pants and boxers down, and there it fucking is. Clarke licks her lips, still on all fours as she admires his dick, springing free to rest against his lower abdomen. She wishes she could reach out, touch it, lick a stripe up the patch of hair below his navel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For all intents and purposes, being completely unbiased, Bellamy has a great dick. It’s not only big, it’s slightly curved and thick enough to leave her with a delicious burn every time. Right now it’s rockhard, and glistening at the tip, and</span>
  <em>
    <span> hers</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and way, way too far away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bellamy picks the tablet back up, lifting his eyebrows at her, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Your turn now, princess.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke sits back up on her knees, reaching behind her to unclip her bra before pushing her pants and boyshorts down her hips. It’s probably not as graceful as it feels in her head, but lifting one knee and then the other, huffing and puffing with the effort and looking for some support on the wall above the headboard while doing it, she’s able to kick them off completely. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s grinning at her stupidly, and it makes her cross her arms over her chest, letting out an indignant huff as she tries to blow a piece of hair from her face, the fall-out from the battle against her own clothes. “What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shrugs, barely, smile dimming just a little. “Nothing. I just miss you a lot.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke deflates, and then deflates even more, slumping down onto her ass, leaning halfway into the pillows. “Now I’m sad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be sad, you’re naked,” Bellamy argues, like the two are mutually exclusive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke glares at him. “I can be both.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know, I’m totally a feminist,” he teases, and she hates the way it makes her crack a smile despite her best intentions to stay mad a little longer. He grins again, bright and big, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>godshitfuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s so fucking attractive. “Let me make you feel better, huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods, more than eager, sliding further down the bed so she’s propped up on one elbow, the other hand free to do whatever he wants her to. At his complete disposal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Touch yourself, like before,” Bellamy starts, watching her intently as she does as he says. Fingers moving through her slick heat. Dripping for him. He gives it another moment before he asks, “Do you wanna taste yourself for me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A thrill runs through her. Clarke nods again, incapable of forming words at the moment, before taking her fingers up to her lips and sucking them into her mouth. She twirls her tongue around them, making sure she gets every last drop before letting them go with a loud, satisfying pop. Using the excess saliva to wet her nipples, the cool air on her heated skin causes them to turn into stiff peaks. He groans, throwing his head back, “Yeah, show them some love for me, baby.” His Adam's apple bobs up and down visibly, “Show them how much I miss holding them.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke flicks her eyes up to the ceiling, half-heartedly. “I knew you only liked me for my tits.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d give them up for a week just to spoon you for an hour,” he argues, just for the sake of arguing. Knowing his favorite spooning position is with one of his hands gripping her breast under her sleeping t’s, she finds that hard to believe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mhm,” she hums, skeptical before deciding to move on. Deliberately putting on a more innocent tone, she asks, “Can I put them inside me now?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Start with one,” he relents, as if it’s such a hardship for him. “Graze the pad of your thumb against your clit.” She presses down exactly where he asks her to, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he hisses, hunger and frustration dripping off every word, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Graze</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Clarke.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke eagerly follows his instructions, feeling her eyes droop closed as she listens to him intently. Telling her to add another finger. Ordering her to start pumping her fingers in and out of her tight entrance. Making her curve them enough to reach that sweet spot that always leaves her weightless. Clarke’s no stranger taking matters into her own hands, but the raspiness of his voice seems to be going straight to her cunt, making her breathing frail and thin. She loses herself in the feeling, in him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you with me?” He chuckles softly, breaking through her quiet reverie. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Baby</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke feels a lazy moan spill from her lips as the pressure between her thighs starts to build up, and she rolls onto her back to get a better angle. Little sparks shoot up her spine and she hopes it’s as good for him as it is for her. Creaking one eye open, she bites down on her bottom lip briefly to repress a squeak, “Are you..” is all she manages. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am,” Bellamy confirms, and she can kind of tell he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> touching himself by the way the screen moves just slightly, the way his chest heaves up and down quicker than before. “You make me so hard, Clarke.” Disbelief is laced with his tone, “No one else has ever made me this fucking hard and you’re not even with me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bell...” Clarke whines, pulling up her knees to press them together, fingers still buried in her pussy. She needs to come. “Please. It’s too much — it </span>
  <em>
    <span>aches</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Put your knees down. I need to see you,” Bellamy commands sternly, knowing exactly what she needs. How much she needs it. “Good. Now add another finger, use your other hand to circle your clit.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her free hand gets lost on the way there, squeezing her tits together for just a moment. A moment long enough for him to growl out her name, a mixture of arousal and frustration. Before he can latch into the latter and even start to think of punishing her, she trails it further down, finding the sensitive nub with practiced ease. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Perfect,” Bellamy rasps, leaning his head back, spreading even more heat throughout her body. He brings his palm up to his mouth, licking it before it disappears back off screen. The thought of him getting himself off to her touching herself is almost enough to push her over the edge. Her skin feels tight, prickly. “Fuck, Clarke. You’re perfect.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Knowing her own body, she is well aware she is close. Little jolts and shocks rising and building like an uncontrollable thunderstorm low in her core. So does he, because he’s the only one who knows her, truly knows her. Her heart, her mind, her soul. Her fucking body. “You’re close, aren’t you, baby?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All she can do is hum, continuing to move her fingers in and out of herself as her other hand rubs circles over her clit. He inhales sharply, and the sound makes a shiver run up her spine, her pulse thumping quickly beneath her heated, sweat slick skin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“God, I wish I could touch you,” Bellamy murmurs, and although there’s music downstairs shaking the walls around her around her, it’s as if they’re the only two people in the world. Just them and the filthy sounds they’re making. “Can you feel me? My chest against yours, my fingers inside of you, my teeth grazing your neck, that spot you like—” Clarke nods vehemently, pulling her hand away from her nub to sway softly at her neck, fingers barely ghosting along the skin just below the edge of her jaw, leaving goosebumps in their wake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Clarke admits, shakily, tongue swiping over her lips, wetting them breathlessly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d work my way down, your collarbone, your chest, my mouth around your nipples—” Clarke follows the path he’s describing, in no state to respond to him properly. She plucks at one of them, the feeling electric, teeth biting down onto her bottom lip to keep from moaning too loud. “That’s right. Touch them for me. Feels good, huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She completely agrees, but is far too gone to offer him any sort of viable response. And so is he, because he’s just babbling at this point, “God, I love you, you know that right? You’re everything. My pretty girl. Your skin, fuck. I wish I could touch you right now. So soft. You smell so nice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke’s skin couldn’t be flushed a deeper red at this point, not that she cares. Her back reactively arches off the bed at the praise, and her hand abandons her breast to go back to rub at her bundle of nerves. He’s close enough himself to let the unauthorized move  slide, lost in sensation, and her lips form a pout out of frustration, right on the precipice of something. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Go slower,” Bellamy tells her, and her hand obeys like it’s no longer under her own control. A sob of frustration shakes her body, and she’s half mad at him for making her slow down when she’s so close. The other half of her is grateful, because she knows it’ll be even better if she does. “In and out, Clarke, slow. Until it aches. Until your body begs you to speed it up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A red flush covers her skin, a thin layer of perspiration coated over it. The image in her mind is so perfectly clear. Clarke can imagine herself on her back, him heavy on top of her, pushing her knees up to her chest. Bellamy’s thick cock working deep inside of her, stretching her walls. His fingers digging into her ass, guiding her, pressing hard enough to leave bruises in the morning. Her breathing is short and deep, and her core is warm, tight, and wet, and she’s so fucking close. It’s driving her insane. She fucking loves it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s it, baby,” he edges her on, no longer hiding or tempering his own desperation. “Let go. Press your thumb down—” And there it is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It hits her like a lightning bolt, arcing from her core to the rest of her body, making it stutter with the sensation. She gasps, her back arching off the comforter as she presses her thighs together, hips buck up against her hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Barely able to process the groans coming from his side of the screen, telling her how good she is, how sexy she looks, how she’s the only one who can do this to him, Clarke thinks she genuinely blacks out. The combination of her own frantic touches and his voice in her ear encouraging her, it’s insanity, it’s too much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she comes back to her senses, she blinks at the screen a few times to clear her vision. He’s using a tissue to clean his stomach and she’s not entirely sure how long she was out of it. Bellamy briefly leans over the iPad, probably to discard the tissue in his trashcan before falling back into the pillows with a loud sigh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wish I could kiss you,” Bellamy admits, gruff, like he’s mad at whoever decided Italy should be six-thousand lousy miles away from her, and she relishes in the sentiment. Although she loves fucking her boyfriend a more than healthy amount, her favorite part is always after. When they get to curl up close, sticky and sweaty and overheated, when he’s all soft and he plays with her hair, whispering about how much he loves her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All Clarke has to offer at the moment is a soft whimper in response, her cheeks still hot from exertion and her satiated limbs heavy with sleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just three more months,” he breathes, and it sounds like a promise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mhmm,” she agrees, mumbling. “Love you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She hears more than sees the smile in his voice, too tired to keep her eyes open, “I love you too.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>seriously, some help would be nice.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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